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The big, noisy group leaves, a couple of them whispering when they see Gloria Walton out getting burgers just a few days after her brother died, like a heartless bitch. Good. I hope they knock her off her pedestal, even if they’re on a lower rung of the social ladder. They can still shake the queen loose from her perch at the top.
I turn back to Lo when the others are gone. “Then you know that you deserve every bit of pain you’re feeling, because when you wonder if it’s your fault that Dawson is dead, just know that it is. You may not know how, but it is. It’s not part of your punishment. Your karma. Think about that while you walk home.”
I stand and grab her food, tossing it on my way out. She doesn’t deserve to eat the food I paid for after what she did to my family. She deserves to suffer and hurt and rage for as long as I do. I’m not going to stop until I know she has. That’s her punishment. And since mine never ends, hers will never end either.
ten
Rumor Has It… WHPA’s beloved blonde royal was seen out and about, grabbing burgers and canoodling with her new beau just days after her brother’s tragic passing. Was it a case of mistaken identity, or could our Queen of Hearts really be so heartless?
Gloria Walton
I’m still collecting myself when footsteps crunch on the gravel of the picnic area, and a pair of men’s Doc Martens tucked into bootcut blue jeans appears in my line of sight. I take a breath and make sure the tears aren’t still shining in my eyes before I look up, taking in the white t-shirt stretched over a muscular abdomen, strong chest, and broad shoulders. I know who it is before I even note the ink swirling over his bare arms and up his neck, to where his hair is pulled back at the nape.
The last person on earth I want to see is standing in front of me with a red and white soda cup in one hand and a basket of fries in the other, a burger tucked into the end. One look in those smoky blue eyes and I can see the sorrow written there.
No way am I letting myself become so pathetic thatColt Darlingfeels sorry for me.
“What are you staring at, creep?” I snarl at him.
“Don’t tell me the untouchable Prom Queen is eating alone,” he says, the momentary pity gone from his eyes.
Relief sinks into me, and I’m hideously grateful that he’s going to be a dick to me instead of being sympathetic. I know how to deal with dicks. I don’t know how to deal with pity.
“No,” I say, scowling up at him. “I’m eating with my boyfriend.”
“One of the Dolce twins, or Bad Omens?”
“It’s Rylan,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “I told you his name. You’d remember if you weren’t so mentally challenged.”
He nods toward the parking lot. “So, the one who just high-tailed it out of here.”
“He went to get something,” I say, though I hear how lame my excuse sounds the moment the words leave my mouth.
Colt laughs and steps over the bench seat, straddling it and sitting sideways to set his food down. My gaze involuntarily skates down his masculine body, the curve of his torso as he leans his elbow on the picnic table, the way his hips angle that makes my mouth go dry. I jerk my gaze back to his, mortified by his amused expression. He clearly saw me lusting after his body, but instead of looking smug like a normal guy, he looks like he finds it hilarious.
Somehow, that’s infinitely worse.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, making a shooing gesture with my newly manicured fingers. For some stupid reason, I’m glad I just got my nails done, that they’re perfect when Colt Darling sees them. I tell myself it’s just because I want him to see that they’re sharp enough to scratch his eyes out, not because I’m afraid he’ll see me as less than flawless, less than hard as diamond and sharp as a steel knife.
“Just keeping you company until Fall Out Boy comes back.”
“Go away, freak,” I say, flicking my nails at him. “Rylan will kick your ass if he sees you talking to me.”
Colt snorts and picks up the glass ketchup bottle in the middle of the table. “I think I could take him.”
“You think he’s weak?” I ask, watching the muscle in his scarred forearm flex as he bangs on the bottom of the bottle to get the ketchup to come out.
He sets it down and smirks at me before picking up a couple fries and swirling them lazily through the pool of ketchup he poured. “You have a better a chance of kicking my ass than that kid.”
“Aren’t you already pathetic enough without adding ‘got beat up by a girl’ to the list?”
“That’s not very progressive of you, is it?” he asks, quirking a brow and popping the fries into his mouth. I watch him chew, annoyed that even the way he does that is careless, lazy, self-assured. I hate him for not caring what anyone thinks, for having confidence even after everything we’ve taken from him.
“Maybe not, but it’s true,” I say, lifting my chin and flattening my hands on the table, wishing I had food to keep me occupied. “Even you wouldn’t be able to live it down if a girl kicked your ass.”
“Hey, I’ve seen you throw down with Harper,” he says, holding up a hand and letting a slow smile spread over his face. “You’re not half bad.”
My traitorous pulse flutters in the side of my throat when he fixes me with that look, like he admires me despite the fact that I’m the last person who deserves it. For a second, our eyes meet, and I’m frozen like a deer in headlights, sure he’ll see through me.
